


Sense and Simmons

by bookishandbossy



Series: Austenland AU [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: A Whole New World Exchange, Austenland AU, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Romantic Comedy, more than 5k
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 16:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4883899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookishandbossy/pseuds/bookishandbossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jemma Simmons lets her best friend talk her into a Austen-themed vacation, she resigns herself to two weeks worth of corsets and embroidery until she meets Leo Fitz, a reluctant Austenland employee whose feelings for her may be much more than pretend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sense and Simmons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [otherpartyfavors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherpartyfavors/gifts).



> Written for otherpartyfavors as part of the Fitzsimmons Network's AU exchange.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that any gentlemen employed by a self-respecting Jane Austen holiday experience should be handsome, well-spoken, charming and tall. Leopold Fitz was in possession of two of those four qualities. On a good day, he was even capable of achieving three. But fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately), he was also in possession of a associate professorship at Oxford and a family connection.

“Well, what else would you be doing with your summer, Leopold?” Even when he held the phone a good three inches away from his ear, his aunt's voice still came through loud and clear. 

“Going on vacation,” he replied. “Like normal people do during the summer.” Never mind that, with his paltry salary, the only kind of vacation Fitz could afford would be a day trip to Brighton. Maybe, if he got a bonus at the end of term, he'd get really lucky and even be able to afford a train to London. Really, what he planned on doing was shutting himself inside his tiny cottage, spending the money he'd saved up by fixing his colleagues' appliances on lots of pizza, watching Doctor Who, and enjoying the blessed, blessed silence for at least two weeks. Then he could start in on his research on social mores of the Regency period.

“Leopold Fitz, your mum already told me that you couldn't afford a vacation,” his aunt said smugly. “We've even got enough room in the budget to pay you this time. Historical consultant, sounds much more official like that.”

“You're not going to make me wear those breeches again, are you?” Fitz asked suspiciously. He'd been roped into courting one of the resort's Austen-mad clients for four out of the past five summers, laced into breeches, vest, and cravat, plopped atop a horse, and sent to his doom. According to his aunt, he was perfect for women looking for the “Sense and Sensibility Experience” and Fitz had a sinking feeling that he was meant to play the part of gangly, awkward Edward Ferrars, the one who got himself engaged to a girl he barely even liked and then was unable to get himself unengaged and get the girl that he really liked for most of the book. It was probably Fitz's own lack of romantic skills that made him so good at the role. Luckily, the Sense and Sensibility Experience didn't appear to be a very popular one and so most of the time, Fitz was happily left alone to play the comic relief to one of Austenland's more brooding options.

“Well...” his aunt paused far too long for his liking. “Not that specific pair of breeches.”

A week later, Fitz pulled into the garage tucked into the back of the Regency manor that housed Austenland, bid his lovingly restored cherry red car a fond farewell, and ascended the stairs to the house like a man ready to face nine weeks of historically inaccurate, highly scheduled “fun.”

 

“Jemma, you need to take a vacation.” Skye leaned over Jemma's breakfast bar and fixed her with a stare that was more than a little intimidating. “Go to the beach, wear a cute sundress, go swimming, drink something that doesn't involve wheatgrass...”

“I burn,” Jemma said primly. She'd been to the beach exactly three times in her life. The first time she had burned approximately 80% of her body, the second time she had been stung by a jellyfish, and the third time it had rained. Beach days were not the Simmons family's forte. “Besides, I just read a study on the benefits of wheatgrass—I could make you one too, if you'd like.” She took a sip of her green drink and forced herself to smile around the taste.

“Weekend in France, then,” Skye persisted. “We could take the Eurostar to Paris, stroll the streets of the Latin Quarter, eat croissants, climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower...it's only like two hours on the train.”

“Are you going to volunteer to learn French for the trip?” Jemma teased. “Because remember when you tried to flirt with that cute French guy in Kensington and ended up telling him that he was the grande fromage?”

“You know, in some circles, calling someone the big cheese is quite the compliment,” Skye said and took another bite of her toastie. “But seriously, Jemma, take a vacation. I know you've got weeks and weeks of time stored up, nothing much is going on at work but you're super stressed anyway—you told me that you'd named the dark circles under each of your eyes and there's no way I'm forgetting that anytime soon.” Jemma winced: in her defense, she'd been rather severely sleep-deprived when she'd texted Skye on her breakfast break and asked her what she thought of naming the circles under her eyes Pierre and Marie, for the Curies. 

“I have been thinking about cutting back on my hours,” Jemma finally admitted.

“Well, you should do that too. Besides going on vacation. I even found somewhere we can go without leaving England so...drum roll, please!” Skye drummed one hand against the marble counter top and whipped out a brochure from behind her back with the other. “Austenland! A complete, immersive Austen experience, dresses, high tea, handsome men, and all. I know you have a copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ hidden away somewhere.”

“I may have a copy, but that doesn't mean I believe in that kind of thing. It's a fantasy and it's very pretty to read about or to watch, but that doesn't mean it's real. Attraction is chemicals and pheromones and...and chemicals that click in the right places. And I think there's something quite marvelous about that,” Jemma added quickly. A million different tiny mechanisms all firing at the exact right time and creating something that felt rather like chemistry...a million separate calculations all somehow adding up to the same thing. Lingering glances across a ballroom had everything to do with mathematics and nothing to do with destiny. Unless you believed that they happened to be the same thing.

“Jemmaaaaa,” Skye dragged her name out for a good five seconds, shamelessly leaning across the table to stare at Jemma with her best puppy dog eyes. “I did the research and everything. Just tell me that you'll think about it?”

“Fine,” Jemma conceded. “I'll think about it.”

A week later, she and Skye were dragging their bags up the graveled front walk that led to Austenland, surrounded by perfectly manicured hedges and rolling green hills that looked to be the perfect size for gentlemen on white horses to gallop down. A pair of uniformed footmen swung open the heavy oak front doors and Jemma tried to discreetly raise both eyebrows at Skye. _Really?_ Her eyebrows nearly vaulted off her forehead, however, when a middle-aged woman in full Regency dress (mobcap, frills, and all) swept down the stairs and confiscated all their electronics. Skye looked like a mom on the first day of kindergarten as she reluctantly locked her laptop away in one of the guest lockers masquerading as sea chests. 

“We have a strict no-technology policy here,” the woman chirped. “No modern distractions, nothing that Jane herself wouldn't have approved of. We want all our guests to be fully focused on the present—or, rather, the past—moment and on the authentic Austenian experience. Which is why we also ask you to wear full Regency clothing at all times, for the sake of the historical accuracy that's a draw for the great majority of our guests. You'll find some clothing in the wardrobes in your room.”

“I'm not going to wear stays,” Jemma said plainly. “I like being able to breathe, thank you very much. And I'd much prefer to go with modern underwear than without. The pantalettes of the Regency era were anything but effective. After all, you can hardly rely on anything that's held up with ribbon.” She'd done her research before leaving for Austenland and frankly, she'd been more than a little alarmed at the extremes of Regency fashion. If they tried to put her in anything transparent or splashed water on any white dresses, she was going to promptly return to her jeans and cozy cardigans before you could say “Colin Firth going swimming in the 1995 BBC miniseries Pride and Prejudice, aka the second Holy Grail of Janeites” (Skye had made her watch all 327 minutes of the series one rainy weekend). 

“Well, of course, we don't expect our guests to go without underwear,” the woman said, a tad less cheerfully. A pulsing vein had appeared at her temple after Jemma had produced a series of Regency cartoons of half-dressed women. “We also, for example, have non-historical plumbing, which I think you'll find you appreciate throughout your stay.”

“Jane would have approved of modern plumbing, then?” Jemma asked and crossed her arms firmly across her chest. 

“Doesn't everyone?” Skye interjected and linked her arm through Jemma's to forcefully tug her towards the staircase. “Come on, Jemma. Let's go check out our rooms!” When Jemma tried to mention Austenland's claims to historical accuracy, which had actually been backed up by some rather impressive credentials when she researched them, Skye not-so-subtly nudged her in the side and pulled her up the first set of stairs. “You know,” Skye said when they got to their room, flopping back onto her four-poster. “We should probably be glad that it's not historically accurate. No wood fires for heat or candles for light or whatever awful diseases people died of in ye olden times.”

“I like electricity just fine,” Jemma protested. “And running water, and all of that. I just...I guess I'm not really in the vacation mood yet?” Some days, she felt like she never really left the lab at all: even when she wasn't at work, she still found herself double and triple-checking every last detail, unsure if it really counted unless it was picture-perfect. The other day, she'd actually spent fifteen minutes in the jam aisle at Waitrose, doing a quality comparison between three different kinds of raspberry jam and before she'd left, she'd actually made four separate packing lists and...Maybe she needed a vacation more than she'd thought. 

“Give it a few hours,” Skye said thoughtfully. “Maybe after some Regency-style adult beverages and a hot man or two in breeches. According to Google, there's something called honey wine?”

“Skye...how did you get Google?”

“You really think I brought just one laptop with me? It's designed to look like my toiletries case.”

 

Fitz hadn't even lasted a day before being forced back into the breeches. (Technically, they were pantaloons but every time he started elaborating on the details of Regency men's clothing, his extended family stared blankly at him, promptly found an urgent reason to be elsewhere, and kept on calling them breeches. He'd had no chance but to give in.) They were a soft fawn color, paired with some knee-high black boots and a dark blue waistcoat and jacket, and rather uncomfortably tight. Fitz comforted himself with the fact that this year he'd been allowed to run a cravat tutorial for all the actors employed by Austenland and, as he glanced around at the other men being briefed by his aunt, he thought that maybe Beau Brummel wouldn't quite weep in despair. He would have informed them all of that accomplishment, if not for the fact that the rest of the room was filled with aspiring actors who hadn't managed to land a role in any summer Shakespeare festivals and fancied themselves as good on a horse. _Thespians._

“Fitz, my man! You got roped into doing this again?” Antoine Triplett, one of the few actors who Fitz could actually stand to be around on a daily basis, strode over with an easy smile. The two men had been paired up the previous summer, when Trip had been cast as the dashing sea captain and Fitz had been his stalwart sidekick, and much to his surprise, they'd become friends when they were off duty as well. Trip was smart and easy-going, just out of drama school and looking to make some money to last him through the endless rounds of auditions, and they'd bonded over pints at the nearest pub and laughing about the mandatory entrance by horseback that Trip had to perform every other week, the overly dramatic and brooding performance of Grant Ward, the actor who played the villainous rogue with a dark past, and the elaborate order of the mandatory tea service. Trip was horrified at the sugar content in some of the cakes, while Fitz was horrified at their paltry size, and together they'd even conspired to smuggle in a load of groceries from the nearest store. “Always good to see you. And your cravat work,” the other man teased, grabbing Fitz in a one-armed hug.

“The family connection strikes again,” Fitz said and grimaced. “Are you swashbuckling again this year?”

“As ever. I heard someone might have requested the Persuasion package, so I see a lot of lingering glances across ballrooms in my future. Your aunt was even talking about renting out one of those historic ships and taking one lucky lady out for the day. Conveniently forgetting that I don't know how to sail...” Trip laughed.

“Still paying off the drama school loans?” Fitz asked.

“Only one more summer here and I'm done. I got a call from the casting director at the RSC,” Trip added, trying to sound casual despite the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Saw me at that show I did at the Southwark Playhouse and thought that maybe they could use me in their fall production of Midsummer.”

“That's bloody fantastic!” Fitz said warmly. “Hunter and I'll have to buy you a pint the next time we go to the pub.”

“Who's buying who a pint?” Lance Hunter, supposedly the groundskeeper and really an actor hired to provide the “rebel experience” for any clients who scorned the standard Austenland courtship, said as he wandered over to the two other men. He was the only man in all of Austenland who got to wear jeans on the job, but he was also stuck trying to prune the hedges convincingly. Last year, they'd lost two box hedges and one topiary animal to his efforts. 

“We're buying Trip one,” Fitz informed him. “In celebration of the fact that by the end of the summer, he'll be free and clear of this place.”

“'s not so bad,” Lance shrugged. “I get to watch a lot of The Great British Bake-Off on my couch and eat chips while trying to look alternative.”

“I thought you'd been getting the same one every year now?” Trip asked and tried to sound innocent. 

“If you mean the hellbeast, then yes,” Lance grumbled. “She goes for the full platinum package every year and then just like clockwork, she shows up at my stupid groundskeeper's cottage halfway through the first week and shouts at people making bad choices on television. Changes the channel and everything and it's not like I wanted to watch celebrities trying to learn to dance. No, I was perfectly fine with biscuit week before she came along...”

“Congratulations,” Fitz whispered to Trip as Lance expounded on biscuit week. “Fifteen minutes before he mentioned Bobbi. It's a new record.”

 

They had dinner by candlelight and Jemma was being good so she didn't even mention that the candelabra on the sideboard looked suspiciously like an electric one, dutifully drank the strange soup that was served as part of the first course, and politely ignored the attempts of one of the so-called gentleman at dinner to look down her dress. (She suspected that he was supposed to play the part of a rake and had gotten more than a tad too enthusiastic about his part.) Beside her, Skye had already started chatting with a pretty blonde woman who kept effortlessly switching between a British and an American accent and who seemed to know what every last strange fork was for. At first, Jemma had tried to follow their conversation, but their discussion had quickly evolved into a lengthy evaluation of how various Mr. Darcys had looked in their billowing white shirts and Jemma was lost long before they got to Matthew Macfadyen. Then she'd attempted to make conversation with the woman seated across from her, but she'd nearly knocked over a dish of mutton when she'd leaned across the table and the other woman had pointedly turned away and struck up a remarkably dull conversation about embroidery stitches with her other neighbor. So finally, Jemma had turned to her right and found her last resort.

On Jemma's other side, a curly-haired man with blue eyes was fidgeting unhappily in his chair and poking at the surface of the soup with a spoon. Probably one of the “gentlemen” employed by Austenland, Jemma reasoned, judging by his perfectly fitted period clothing and the appraising glances the other women in the room cast his way. It was probably his first night on the job too, judging by the way that he continued to shift from side to side in his chair and cast hopeful glances towards the huge grandfather clock . Classic case of nerves—poor thing, really. She could try to make conversation with him, couldn't she? To be polite? And considering the fact that she was the only person there who could potentially be more awkward than him, they might even be able to find some common ground of lacking Regency social skills. Jemma put down her strange fish fork, squared her shoulders, and readied herself for the possibility of social misery. “How do you do? I'm Miss Simmons.” she chirped and turned to face her neighbor. “The fish is arranged in a very interesting way tonight, isn't it?”

He glanced up from his soup at her and his eyes went wide and slightly panicked. Jemma supposed that Austenland guests rarely chose him to speak to. “Hi,” he blurted out. “I mean good evening. Miss Simmons. How do you do? I'm Mr. Fitz.” He inclined his head towards her in a slight bow and offered her a shy smile, seemingly more confident now. “Are you, er...are you enjoying your stay at Wattlesbrook Manor?”

“Wattlesbrook Manor?” Jemma was too horrified to remember to keep her voice at a ladylike level and all the other guests turned to stare at her with disapproving looks as her words echoed off the high ceiling and she shrank back into her chair. At the head of the table, the mob-capped woman shot Fitz a sharp glare and he straightened in his chair, tugged at one corner of his cravat, and stopped prodding his food. 

“It's, ah, it's been in the family for generations, ever since the first Sir Wattlesbrook received a special commendation and a knighthood from George II in honor of his services selling sausages,” Fitz recited. “And various other groceries. He was a... a noted grocer. So what brings you down from London, Miss Simmons?”

“My best friend.” She received another glare from the dinner guests. Apparently modern day speech was also frowned upon at Wattlesbrook Manor. Jemma fought a highly inappropriate, nearly hysterical urge to laugh. “My bosom companion?” she said tentatively. Fitz nodded in encouragement. “My bosom companion Miss Johnson thought we should take the country air.”

“The benefits of country air have been widely documented,” he said with a solemn nod and gulped down a spoonful of soup so he wouldn't have to say anything more. 

“Such as?” Jemma asked sweetly. She really couldn't allow him to make that facial expression he'd had when he tasted the soup again, for the good of the entire table. And maybe she liked the way that he rolled his eyes heavenwards when talking about the benefits of country air, the way that he gave her a small smile while they were being glared at, with a curl at the edge of his mouth that suggested he was sharing a joke with her. (And maybe she wanted to tease him, just a little, just to see what he'd do.)

“It's very...aerating. For the lungs.” Then he nudged her with one hand under the table and when she glanced over at him, gestured down to a very anachronistic pocket notebook and ballpoint pen resting on one of his knees. He'd scribbled a message in the very center of it, large enough that it took up most of the page, and it read: _They're not watching any longer. We can stop talking about the country air now._ Jemma gestured for him to hand the notebook, flipped to the next page, and discreetly wrote her reply: _You're not interested in talking to me anymore?_ She firmly denied the existence of the little flip of disappointment in her stomach at the thought that his answer might be yes.

_No!_ He wrote in response, hard enough that the pen pressed down through the paper and nearly tore it. _You're the first guest who's ever looked like she doesn't want to be here. I have to investigate and record it for posterity._

_My friend thought I needed a vacation_ , she wrote back. _Originally we were going to go to the beach. A real beach._

_Well, of course, you couldn't stand for that. British pride and all_ , he wrote, covering the page with one hand and looking very pleased with himself when she laughed. From the head of the table, the mob-capped tyrant coughed loudly and meaningfully in Fitz's direction, and he slipped the notebook back into his pocket with a guilty look. Apparently, humor at the dinner table was quite severely frowned upon at Austenland: Jane herself would hardly approve.

But he made a silly face at her over the blancmange anyway and rearranged the vegetables on his plate into stunningly accurate portraits of the other guests at the dinner table and made the four-course dinner much more enjoyable than she had ever expected it to be. In fact, she just might have acquired an ally here and the thought made her glow with a small, secret happiness that sent unexpected jolts of warmth through her whenever he pulled a silly face at his plate. 

“I see you already found a suitor,” Skye said smugly when they got back to their room that night, after a long round of listening to various veteran guests plunk out tunes on the pianoforte while singing rather morbid tunes in uncomfortably high and wavering voices. Jemma hoped that they wouldn't be expected to perform as well.

“Not a 'suitor',” Jemma corrected. “A friend. We're going to complain about being here together.”

“You flirt in the weirdest ways. But hey, if it works...” Skye waggled her eyebrows suggestively at Jemma and flopped backward onto her four poster in a distinctly unladylike fashion.

“I didn't come here wanting some kind of manufactured Mr. Darcy romance. In fact, I only came because you made me,” Jemma said defensively. “It was just...it's nice to have someone here who thinks this whole thing is as silly as I do. It reminds me not to take any of it too seriously.”

“Jemma Simmons, not taking something seriously?” Skye gasped dramatically. “Austenland is already working its magic.” Jemma threw a historically inaccurate pillow at her.

The next day, they were all gathered in the ballroom for a dancing lesson with the gentlemen of the house. “To be fond of dancing is a sure step towards falling in love,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook announced. “Of course, you all doubtless count dancing among your many accomplishments, as well-bred young ladies, but it would behoove us all to have a quick review.” Lurking at the back of the group of eight women, Jemma rolled her eyes heavenwards. They'd each been assigned a character history at the beginning of their stay, complete with a lengthy list of accomplishments, a genteel but slightly impoverished family, and a charming anecdote meant to prove their independent and spirited nature. According to her biography, she played the piano and embroidered some truly lovely seashells, presumably because she collected seashells in real life. Either way, she decided as one of the resident gentlemen began to decide an elaborate series of skips and hops, dancing was not going to be among her many accomplishments.

Luckily, she was partnered up with Fitz, who seemed to be just as hapless as she was. They skipped where they should have hopped, hopped where they should have skipped, went in the wrong direction nine times out of ten (and the tenth, when they actually went in the right direction, was entirely by mistake), and collided with all the other couples until they were asked to stand aside. “Why are you so bad at this?” Jemma whispered to him. “Aren't you supposed to be trained in riding and dancing and gentleman-ing?”

“I got all the training. That doesn't mean that it stuck,” Fitz whispered back. “I shouldn't even be paired with anyone right now, but we have more guests than usual this summer.”

“I didn't even know that there was a market for this kind of thing,” Jemma said curiously. “I mean, they all know it's not real, don't they? The dresses and the balls and the handsome men dancing attendance on them?”

“Do you mean to say, Miss Simmons, with your ample charms and sparkling wit, you don't have gentlemen dancing attendance on you as a matter of course?”  
“Fitz!” she hissed. “It's not half as funny as you think it is.” While they were dancing that morning, he'd come up with a series of more and more ridiculous compliments for her, each one delivered within earshot of Mrs. Wattlesbrook and with a perfectly composed, sincere face. Jemma suspected that he was trying to make her laugh and was absolutely determined to not succumb. Especially since he looked so annoyingly (adorably) pleased with himself every time the corners of her mouth twitched upwards. “Do you have a book somewhere?” she asked. “Overwrought Regency romance Mad Libs?”

“That's confidential,” Fitz said solemnly. “Contract and everything. Including the threat of ruination and doom if I divulge any trade secrets.”

“Keep this up and I won't choose you as my partner for lawn bowls.” It was an empty threat, of course. Fitz was the reigning Austenland champion when it came to lawn bowls, due to his handy knack of being able to calculate the exact angle needed to knock everything down in a matter of seconds, and Jemma was determined to defeat everyone else. She'd nearly knocked Miss Shipwright over during the dancing, when Fitz had tried to spin her and she'd gone reeling sideways into the rest of the couples, and her embroidery sampler had turned into a mass of knots faster than she could list the first ten elements of the periodic table, but she could triumph at lawn bowls. So she turned to Fitz, or he turned to her, almost immediately and together they demolished their competition for a good twenty minutes. Until an incredibly handsome man rode up on a white horse and stole their thunder.

“Captain Triplett!” Mrs. Wattlesbrook exclaimed, rushing forward in a flurry of skirts and handkerchiefs, and dropped a quick curtsy. “We didn't expect you until Thursday at the very earliest. I trust that you've returned from your sea voyage in good health?”

“Indeed I have,” the man responded. “Luckily enough, there was a strong wind and fair weather on my way home, all the better to bring me back to a fair lady.” He winked in everyone's general direction. Half the women there swooned.

 

“Fair weather to bring you back to a fair lady? Are you sure about that one?” Fitz said, smirking over his pint at Trip.

“Hey, I don't write the lines. I just deliver them,” Trip shrugged. “Though the girl in the blue dress was gorgeous enough to actually make them make sense.”

“You mean Jemma?” Fitz blurted out and narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the other man. If he did anything that hurt Jemma or made her fall for him for real, Fitz would...well, any kind of physical action was out of the question but he'd do something.

“No, Skye. Who's Jemma?”

“Nobody,” Fitz said around a huge swallow of beer. “A friend.”

“Pretty big leap from a nobody to a friend. What's she going to be next?” Now Trip was the one smirking, damn him, and his smirk looked a lot better than Fitz's.

“Nothing,” Fitz said firmly. “Nothing at all.”

 

Fitz and Jemma soon became the scourge of Austenland, much to their delight. Their table manners were horribly lacking, especially when it came to the fish forks, their dancing remained atrocious, and their lawn bowls record continued to be spotless. During afternoon teas or evening parties, he always gravitated to the same sofa she was sitting on and as soon as people stopped watching them, they dropped the formal Regency speech and talked about everything that wasn't related to love, from her research to his favorite books to their shared obsession with Doctor Who. He was one of the few people she'd ever met whose eyes didn't glaze over when she started talking about the latest set of tests she was running and although he didn't say anything, she suspected that he hadn't met many other people who'd argue for him for hours and then greet him cheerfully in the morning. Jemma suspected that Mrs. Wattlesbrook knew what they were up to, especially after Fitz had helped her destroy her third sampler of her stay, but had decided to leave them be for now. After all, there were more pressing matters to attend to, like the occasional guest who got uncomfortably close to one of the actors or the blancmange that spilled all over the spotless tablecloth when said guest edged into the actor's lap. They had a new Mr. Bingley the very next day. However, no matter how often Jemma bothered him about it, Fitz refused to tell her how many actors they had standing by in case of emergency. She had rather delightful mental pictures of a line of men in breeches and tailcoats, striding around practicing their best haughty looks and impassioned declarations of love, perhaps occasionally galloping across the countryside on a horse...It made her giggle every time she thought about it and perhaps, on second thought, it was better if Fitz didn't deflate all her illusions. (After all, she'd already discovered the WiFi router hidden in one of the potted plants.)

On Saturday morning, they transitioned from dancing to an even more disastrous prospect: music. All the Austenland guests were arranged artistically along a settee in the drawing room and informed that they would be expected to display their prowess on the pianoforte. Some of the guests, obviously repeat visitors from the tops of their perfectly curled Regency hair to the million tiny buttons on their boots, had actually taken the time to learn period-accurate pieces and plonk and plink them out on the pianoforte. The gentlemen applauded for far longer than the occasion warranted and so for a moment, Jemma had hope that they'd applaud no matter what she did. Even if what she did was a severely off-key rendition of “Just the Way You Are”. (She'd learned it as a party trick ages ago and never bothered to learn anything else.)

“I think we should turn our karaoke nights into pianoforte nights,” Skye told her afterward. “Bobbi knows all kinds of early 2000's boy band songs on the piano.”

“That's...oddly specific,” Jemma replied as she tried to balance her teacup on one gown-clad knee. “Why the early 2000's?”

“I wanted to irritate someone very special to me,” Bobbi said sweetly. “It's our tradition every year and I just couldn't let him down.”

“Miss Morse!” Mrs. Wattlesbrook trilled. “Young ladies do not ever deliberately irritate or provoke. If anything less than cordial, they instantly seek to make amends.”

“Unless, of course, another young lady has a gown the same color or the actor that they were eying,” Bobbi added under her breath. “There's a core group of women who've been going to Austenland for years and every time, they fight with each other over who gets Mr. Darcy. I think they actually might enjoy it.”

“How long have you been going here?” Skye asked.

“Three years now. I nearly left after the first year, when they tried to put us all on horseback and stage riding accidents from which you could be rescued by your chosen gentleman but then they introduced a special program which--” Bobbi was cut off by one of the other guests seated to their right, who immediately coughed meaningfully into her handkerchief and began a long explanation of the riding accident she'd endured three years ago. Apparently Austenland hoped that its guests would pay no attention to the man—or, rather, to the never ending line of attractive actors and the woman directing them—behind the curtain. 

Later, Jemma tried to ask Fitz about it but he just shook his head and reminded her about the non-disclosure clause in his contract. “I wish I could,” he said as he passed her a cup of weak lemonade. “But I do need the money from this job and I'd like to eat something that isn't beans on toast for the rest of the summer.”

“I'll have you know that beans on toast is one of only four foods I can make,” Jemma informed him from behind her fan. “It's amazing the things you can do with it when you don't want to learn how to cook.”

“So what are the other three?”

“Pasta, eggs, and a prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella sandwich with homemade pesto aioli.” If she was going to list a sandwich as one of her signature dishes, it was going to be a really excellent (a superior) sandwich.

“You should make the last one for me. I haven't had pesto in ages,” Fitz said longingly. “Not a Regency approved food.”

“You're going to smuggle me down into the kitchens now?” Jemma teased.

“Well, actually, I thought that maybe...after all of this is over and we're both wearing everyday clothing and not required to learn dance steps on a regular basis...” Fitz was turning pink now, scuffing one foot along the ground and trying to jam both hands into the pockets of his too-tight breeches. “We could, er, get lunch or something? When I have a day off? It might be nice to see each other without, ah, without all of this.” He waved one hand in a vague circle around them and somehow managed to encompass everything from the poorly trimmed hedges to the simpering laughter drifting over from the walled garden to the dress that was currently discouraging her from breathing. “I mean, we don't have to if you don't want to,” he added quickly. “I don't want to put pressure on you or to...”

“That...that would be lovely,” Jemma said, perhaps a tad too enthusiastically. “I certainly can't wait to get out of these clothes.” Fitz turned even pinker. “And eat a proper meal,” she added hastily. “I've been craving curry for the past week.”

“Right, curry. Curry's pretty great. Did you know,” he asked after a long pause. “That during the Regency era, it was customary to pass the tea leaves down to the housekeeper once you were finished with them? Then she'd pass them on to her favorite servant and so on and so on until the leaves were completely wrung out. They thought about introducing that here for a while but then the unions filed a letter of complaint.”

“The union?” Did people in the Austen industry band together on a regular basis to complain about lukewarm tea and ill-fitting clothing? She'd love to see what kind of picket signs they came up with.

“Actors' Equity hates us,” Fitz said smugly. “Not that most of the actors here have their card yet but still...Trip might get his soon. I mean,” he added when the other guests started drifting in their direction. “Captain Triplett is soon to acquire a far greater ship. By the name of the Card of Actors' Equity. And then he will never have to captain again.”

“I see,” Jemma said thoughtfully. “Are you also a sailor on the good ship of Acting?”

“God no. I'm, ah, a good friend of the family. Just as Mr. Fitz is. Non-disclosure agreement,” he added by way of explanation when she gave him an odd look. “And I...I'm not quite sure that I'm ready for you to find me in the real world yet. Even though real-world Fitz lacks the unflattering pants. I said the thing about the curry on an impulse and my impulses don't really turn out well and... I don't normally say those kinds of things to Austenland guests—they're not even in the script-- but then I've never spent as much time with anyone as I have with you and it's all rather confusing really and I--”

“But how are we supposed to get curry if I don't know how to find you?” she blurted out, nerves suddenly making her rush her words together and tug anxiously at the lace on her gloves. Besides Skye, and the occasional conversation with Bobbi, Fitz had been the only thing making Austenland truly bearable with his jokes and his smiles and the indefinable something hovering in the air between them. Sometimes when he took her hand in his for the dancing or when he stood close enough that she could make out the different shades of blue in his eyes, she felt an inexplicable bolt of electricity zip her up her spine. There was something that made her extra aware of him, made her track his movements with her eyes and turn to greet him before he even finished approaching her, like a string wrapped around both their wrists that tugged whenever he pulled away. Jemma couldn't fathom what it meant and if there was anything she disliked, it was something that she couldn't explain. Clearly, she had to see him again, if only to finally figure it out. “I mean, the end is fast approaching and you've really been the best part of all this, with the ridiculous dances and the courtships—I'm fairly sure I caught people snogging in the hedge maze yesterday and it was spectacularly awkward—and all this dressing-up. Real-world me is quite different too, but maybe we could get used to our real-world selves together?”

“Yeah, maybe we could,” Fitz said, smile slowly stealing across his face. Jemma wasn't quite sure but she thought that her heart might have grown a size.

Two days later, on the night of the ball, she found out how very wrong she'd been. Bobbi was dressing for the ball with them when she let slip that she'd been carrying on a casual affair with the groundskeeper. “The groundskeeper? Really?” Skye asked, wrinkling her nose in consternation. “He kind of looks like an angry hobbit while he's chopping away at those hedges.”

“Wouldn't you get in trouble?” Jemma added. “I can't imagine Mrs. Wattlesbrook being very happy that you've been slipping off to watch television and eat Jammy Dodgers.”

“Oh, Mrs. Wattlesbrook knows. But she doesn't know that I know,” Bobbi said smugly. “It's an option that they provide for their “rebellious” guests. They arrange an experience where the guest feels like they're going outside of the Austenland experience and breaking the rules, but the situation is still under control the whole time. A little creepy when you think about it.”

“A little creepy...” Jemma echoed. “Would it...is it always the groundskeeper? Or could it—could it be one of the actors themselves?” Fitz was a terrible actor—he'd said so himself, hadn't he? He'd disliked every bit of it just as much as she had and you couldn't fake that. The blushes, the notebook tucked into his vest, him stepping on her feet when they danced. (No one who knew how to dance could be quite that bad at it, could they?)

“It depends. They tailor it really well to each guest, based on the survey they have you fill out beforehand. There's usually some kind of grand declaration at the ball,” Bobbi said with a shrug. “ The 'I'm not supposed to fall for a guest but I just can't live without you' kind of thing—the first year, Hunter found me in the gardens and tried to sweep me off my feet. Turns out, he forgot that I was taller than him and it didn't work so well.” 

Bobbi laughed and so did Skye but Jemma barely heard it. She was going back over every interaction she'd had with Fitz, examining and analyzing and wondering where exactly she'd gone wrong. How she'd been so stupid as to fall for it. “I should have known better,” she whispered and grabbed on to one of the bedposts so tightly that it hurt. Should have known better than to expect that that kind of friendship, that kind of near-perfect understanding, existed. Should have known better than to expect that someone would think her mind was just as lovely as her face. Should have known better than to expect anything from a

“Jemma, are you all right?” And suddenly Skye was at her side, wrapping an arm around her waist and steadying her. “You're looking really pale. Did we lace the corset too tight?”

“No, no, I'm fine. Really,” Jemma insisted when Skye shot her a quizzical look. “I'm perfectly fine.” And she would be, she told herself.

She was fine when Fitz asked to speak with her on the balcony in the middle of the ball. She was fine when he took both her hands in his and looked at her full-on with his spectacularly blue eyes. She was fine when he told her that she was lovely and smart and kind and funny and quite unlike anyone he'd ever met before, and that he wanted to see her again more than anything. And she was fine when he tried to kiss her and when she pulled away. 

She was not fine, however, when he appeared at the train station. She'd even changed her ticket to an earlier time so she could be gone by the time everyone, despite Skye's protests and the promised elaborate leaving breakfast. “I don't care about the hot cross buns,” she'd said crossly that morning. “Or getting to pick a clothing item to keep, because I'm never going to wear any of that ever again.” And she especially didn't care that Fitz had tried to go after her when she'd walked away. 

All Jemma Simmons wanted was to never see Austenland and, as she waited for the 5am express back to London, she was ready to do exactly that. If she leaned out over the tracks, she thought that she could even see the train rounding the bend to the station. Then she heard the squeal of tires on concrete and an all too familiar voice shouting her name. “Jemma!” Fitz shouted, vaulting out of the car and sprinting through the parking lot to the tiny platform. “Jemma, please don't leave yet! You have to give me the chance to explain.”

“Explain what? You're an actor, Fitz, and you did a very good job,” Jemma said flatly. “I hope you get a very nice bonus for your performance with me.”

“My performance? Jemma, I didn't—I meant every word that I said. I think you're wonderful and I—I'm definitely not an actor.”

“Is the last-minute declaration part of the script too? Because it's very nicely timed. Bobbi told me about what they'd arranged for her with Hunter,” Jemma explained when he just kept on standing there and staring at her. “And I realized that we were too good to be true. That no one could possibly look at me like you did last night.” Standing there on the balcony, he'd looked at her like he couldn't see anything else and that was just scientifically improbable.

“But I'm not an actor,” he repeated. “I'm a bloody history professor. I only work here over the summers because my aunt runs the place. And because teaching history doesn't pay much.”

“He lives off microwave pizza and frozen dinners,” a man shouted from inside the car. “I think he makes even less money than an actor.” Was that Captain Triplett? Wearing jeans? Apparently Fitz had roped other cast members into his little charade.

“Prove it,” Jemma said stubbornly and stuck out her chin.

“I wrote a book. About British propaganda during the Napoleonic Wars. It's called The Little Emperor and you might not be able to buy it in Waterstones but they definitely have it in an odd academic bookstore or two and I'll even buy you a copy if you want.”

“It's a great book,” Trip said cheerfully from inside the car. “A really interesting read.”

“Not helping,” Fitz hissed at Trip, then turned back to her. “But look, I just...I wasn't pretending, Jemma. I wasn't pretending for a minute of it. I think you're brilliant and lovely and completely and utterly unique in this world. That actually terrifies me a little, because if I lose you now, I'll never get the chance to know you again. And you have no idea how badly I want to.”

“I'd probably bore you in two days, you know. People aren't interested in knowing me that way.” At least men weren't. Her previous relationships had barely been long enough to be called relationships and each one of them had revolved around the sort of things that didn't involve talking. But all she'd done with Fitz was talk and he'd only seemed to become more interested the more she talked.

“Well, I am. Just give me a chance. Say you'll go out to lunch with me. If you don't like it, you can leave anytime,” he promised. “Just march right out the door and leave me with the check.”

“I wouldn't do that,” Jemma said, almost automatically. “I'd pay at least half.”

“So is that a yes?” Fitz asked hopefully.

“I don't...I can't...look, my train's coming. I have to go.” Jemma grabbed the handle of her suitcase and tried to take a step away. She couldn't quite bring herself to do it, not when he couldn't seem to look away from her. “I have to go back to London and you have to go back to Austenland and woo some other guest. That's the way this works.”

“I quit.” Fitz met her gaze head-on and behind them, Jemma faintly heard someone let out a whoop of joy. “I know that it's too soon for certain kinds of words but there's something between us that's convinced me I could never fall for anyone else. Or even pretend to. I'm not even sure what it is but I--”

“You just want to find out what it could be,” Jemma said quietly.

“Exactly. Here,” Fitz leaned forward and pressed a wrinkled piece of paper into her hand. “It's my email and phone number. Out in the real world. You don't have to call me if you don't want to but I just...I'd take a chance with you over almost anything else, Jemma. Please tell me that you believe that.”

She didn't say anything back. Because she kissed him instead, lunging forward and pressing her mouth to his with an abandon that was completely strange and strangely thrilling. He held her tight enough that she could feel the memory of his arms around her hours later and she ran her hands through his hair until it was hopelessly messy, wrapping herself around him until the conductor shouted at her to get on the train. It was hot and quick, all gasps and hands and holding on as hard as she possibly could, and it was possibly the most spectacular kiss she'd ever had.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that when a gentlemen with beautiful blue eyes chases after a lady in a vintage car and kisses her like he's not a gentlemen at all, the lady will call him before her train even leaves the station.


End file.
